Six Ways Not to Die
Daylight snaking into your bedroom,
pouring into your corneas like lemonade into a glass.
Leaving the muted, loose universe of pool or pond,
the air resists your reentrance.
The first few breaths feel mechanical,
but how easy it is to slide back into thoughtlessness, oxygen.
You aren't tempted to taste the bleach.
If you did, it would be bitter, citrusy,
soft and smooth on your teeth.
The jumpy smoke alarm. Overly sensitive.
Empty book of matches.
Lighter biting into your thumb,
and no flame.
Your method of dressing.
A streamlined uniform of warmth.
Wool, cotton, cotton, skin.
Succession of awakenings,
the ability to recognize the new in what is happening,
what keeps happening.
You expect that the world will still be there for you.